


Gentle Touches

by Sherry_CS



Series: The Aftermath [4]
Category: Finder no Hyouteki | Finder Series
Genre: Happy birthday Feilong! 2020, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:07:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22585339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherry_CS/pseuds/Sherry_CS
Summary: Extra to the Aftermath series. Happy birthday Feilong!
Relationships: Liu Fei Long/Yoh, Mikhail Arbatov/Liu Fei Long
Series: The Aftermath [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1423033
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	Gentle Touches

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: there’s cheating... sort of.
> 
> Also, taking Rakuin to be canon.

Watching the sun rise on your own birthday. 

It’s going to be a cloudy day. The mist is thick as rain. 

He sits on the edge of the bed. They say staying up late is not a sure sign of depression, but waking up early could be, if it happens on a daily basis. Guess he didn’t need to be told that. Knowing you could be depressed, doesn’t that put the icing on the cake? He doesn’t want to get off the bed. He does not want to face the day. 

His senior managers have planned a birthday surprise for him. Yoh had let him in on it days ahead. He is going to act surprised. He is going to reward them.

The power balance is a delicate thing to keep. 

And then meetings throughout the day. That investment deal must be signed today. Lunch with an official who he believes harbours an ambition to run governor this year. Certain merchandise he will see to personally. A call he is expecting, dialling in from Mexico. And on top of all that, Tao’s teacher wants to meet him. 

Just a regular day then. 

(Why was Father never stressed? He never noticed Father stressing over any of this.)

Two knocks on the door. Sure, firm, composed. They don’t need a certain rhythm. He hears the man’s heartbeat in his knock. 

“Come in,” announces he. The door opens without a sound. A presence, eternal like the oak, adds into the room. 

“Come here, Yoh.”

The man does as told. 

It is way too early in the morning. 

Yoh stands at the foot of the bed, hands crossed in front, waiting for a command. He gives it. 

“Come closer.”

The man takes two steps toward him. 

“Not like that. Closer. Give me your hand.”

A weird order like that, yet his subordinate shows not a second’s hesitation. 

His fingertips connect with Yoh’s palm. 

Rough. Warm. Steady. Leathery. Gunpowder. Fireplace. Black coffee, dark roast. Anchor. 

He knows he is probably putting the man through exquisite torture right now. He is probably torturing him just by keeping him alive. Yet he is pathetic like that. He couldn’t bring himself to kill the only man he went so far as to trust. (Still is — the only man he trusts. He realises with painful clarity.)

“Thank you, Yoh,” he lets go of Yoh’s hand, “I’ll be down shortly.”

Yoh takes an uncharacteristic pause before answering, “your first meeting does not start until 8:30, you can take your time.”

He pauses too. 

“Thank you.”

Footsteps leaving the room. Doors joined seamlessly. He closes his eyes for one final moment. The memory of Taipei hangs in the air between them on a spider’s thread, unvoiced, chopped short by a heavy set of mahogany doors and their own stubbornness. 

  
When he came back from luncheon, he noticed a fresh vase of pink roses on his desk. “Who gave me these?” He asked Yoh who carried his afternoon’s work in. “Gillian,” answered the stoic man, “she knows it’s your birthday and wants to add some colour to your desk.”

At that, Feilong had to smile. “Thank her, but I don’t need this in my study.”

“I’ll put them in the bathroom where no one can see.” The man had obviously found the solution the moment he saw these lovely plants. 

“I’ll be forever in your debt,” replied Feilong jokingly, until he half-realised this might be true. 

He brushed the thought off. 

  
His next meeting took place in a hotel room, curtains drawn, debugged. The merchandise was to his satisfaction. Afterwards, to be safe, he ordered Yoh to drive around Hong Kong for various chores to distract whoever could be watching (could’ve thrown in that meeting with Tao’s teacher but didn’t want to put the good woman in trouble.) 

Somewhere in New Territories, he noticed a motorbike following them. A flash of white colour on a black bike, zooming past in parallel with them on a fast lane in the hills flanking the expressway, spotted one second, disappearing the next. Feilong smiled a knowing smile. “Yoh, head to Tsing Yi. Also, drive fast.”

Oh yes Yoh could drive fast. Those civilian cars wouldn’t know what hit them. 

Up on the hill, the motorist in white saw Feilong’s black car take an unexpected turn, and smiled _his_ knowing smile. 

  
They met on a deserted road on Tsing Yi island. Looking out, they could see the airplanes taking off in the distance. It was a cloudy day indeed. 

It was hard to say who caught up with who. Yoh drove smoothly and _fast_ , but the motorist seemed to know shortcuts that shouldn’t have existed. 

Said motorist took off his helmet and shook that wild head of golden locks. 

“Happy birthday,” he said. 

“You’ve lost weight, Mikhail, is the war treating you badly?” Feilong had intended for it to sound like a mock, yet it came out more caring than it should. To cover for his unease, he turned out toward the sea, pressing dangerously close to the precarious railing. 

Mikhail had lost weight indeed. His face was visibly thinner, his features more pronounced, making him look younger than he really was, what with that unruly head of hair and all. Even his collarbones looked sharper. He was dressed in a t-shirt and a white leather jacket, figure-hugging ankle-length jeans, and bright-coloured sneakers. He looked like a college kid rather than the head of the Bratva (the _youngest_ head of the Bratva if Feilong cared to add.)

“Nah, I’m fine,” Mikhail stepped up to Feilong, “been training hard, that’s all.”

Feilong looked down at the expanse of the city. In this comparatively rural area of Tsing Yi, the burdens of the city seemed far away, yet Feilong knew it was only an illusion. They were always there, the murmurs behind his back, the knives hidden in the side, eyes, mouths, ears, all around and inescapable. He faced it every day, and now Mikhail was facing it, only the targeted Russian was facing it full swing. People in their business prize themselves over their smarts, their resources, their muscles, but in the end, the luckiest man wins. And so far, Mikhail Arbatov had always been lucky. 

Feilong turned around. “What have you got for me?” He allowed for a seductive smirk upon his lips. 

Mikhail played coquettish — “What makes you think I came with a present?” — but only for a second. He reached into his jacket and took out a slim rectangular box. “Here.”

Feilong took it. “What is it?”

“Open it.”

Matte black surface, embroidered black ribbon, light, classy. He untangled the ribbon, then opened the box. Inside sat a pair of gloves, black, simple smooth design, the finest lambskin, impeccably made. Feilong ran his fingers over them and immediately took a liking. Mikhail’s deep flirtatious voice resounded above his head, “want you to keep warm while I’m not there.” 

It’s been six months since they’d last been this close to each other. 

Feilong noticed a tinge of labour in Mikhail’s breathing. “Do something, or I’m going to kiss you and this is gonna take longer than I planned.” Feilong felt the warm breaths brushing his forehead, and for a split split second, he felt like being the bad boy and do what he knew — what they both knew — he shouldn’t. 

He took the gloves out of their box and put them on, effectively putting a little distance between him and the blonde. The gloves fit like cream. And then, Feilong noticed something special. He sniffed the fabric tentatively. 

Mikhail smirked. Had the smug look suited any other human being more? It was quite clear who was the real bad boy here. “Find anything you like?” He had the puffy air of a child general. 

“It’s... no...” Feilong wasn’t sure but when he caught the frantic nodding of Mikhail’s head, “oh you cheesy sentimental silly piece of trash.” He made to take off the gloves and Mikhail took his hands in his, encasing them as if in a prayer. 

He kissed Feilong’s leather-covered fingertips, “so you remembered.”

It was the scent of lilies that was infused into the leather. Not just any lily, those regal spotless tiger lilies poised by Mikhail’s bedside in that grand summer house of his, a place and time that felt like a parallel universe to the one they were living in. Had it really been six months? 

Sometimes the man would just go and do something as unpardonable as this. 

Feilong couldn’t say anything more. Anything he said would be wrong. He snatched his hands back and brushed past Mikhail. “I will have them checked and debugged of course.”

“Of course.”

The Russian did not try to stop him. It was Feilong who turned around after only three steps and said, “Mikhail.”

“Yes, baby?”

“Don’t die.”

_Because sometimes luck does not cut it._

With that, he left. He walked straight up to his car and never turned back. 

Mikhail’s gaze clung to that austere back much like the scent of lilies clung to those gloves. It was not yet time, he thought. Not yet time. 

  
That night, Tao made a strawberry cake for him, the only kind he sort of, kind of, liked. Tao made him make a wish and he did, but his mind was blank. All the things he really wanted were unutterable, even to himself. Why trouble the gods with them? Later they had tea. There were rose petals on the tea tray, no doubt Gillian’s idea again. 

He made Tao go to bed early and bathed alone. Those pink roses stood in a crystal vase by the end of the tub, looking very demure. Sometimes he wished the night would go on forever. He had just turned thirty today. Father was thirty, he believed, when he adopted him. Brother was thirty-one when he died (was killed. He corrected himself.) 

When he came out of the tub, he found an unfamiliar bathrobe draped over the chair in waiting. He approached it. It was a deep crimson, with one single white camellia sewn in over the heart. Silk, needless to say. He remembered placing a new batch of orders with his costumier but wasn’t sure if this was part of it. 

He threw it on before realising he hadn’t dried himself yet. 

“Yoh?” He called, instinctively. No, this was his private quarters. Yoh was off duty. How very silly of him. He had started to take off the robe when rough hands met his own, taking over the task. 

Gunpowder. Fireplace. Anchor. 

He turned around, bright gemstone eyes meeting twin mines of eternal impenetrability. Trustworthy. Infuriating. 

The silk was taken from his hand. Dry cotton towel wrapped around his body. Gentle touches covering him from head to toe, setting him right like they did time and time again. He had to laugh, which startled the stoic man administering the moves. 

“I’m like a child,” explained Feilong, “pathetic.”

Yoh’s soldierly eyes softened. “You can afford to be.”

Feilong echoed, “yeah.”

A moment of silence. A novel fragrance in the air. Steam invading from the bathroom. Feilong closes his eyes and inhales. “What is this scent? A new oil?”

Yoh takes a moment to examine. 

“Yes, it appears so. It says camellia on the bottle.”

“I’m sure this is also Gillian’s idea.”

“Quite possibly,” replies Yoh. 

From the look of the man, you wouldn’t think he is capable of touches as tender as these, but such are the ones Feilong feels in his hair. He has always loved for his hair to be touched, that’s why he would never let anyone do it. 

Yoh’s presence is this reassuring steadying thing behind him. He knows he shouldn’t rely on it so, but nine years is a long time, and it’s a bit too late to stop now. 

His hair ritual finished, Feilong rises to be dressed. He turns around, exposing his half-naked body in an almost taunting way. His bodyguard reaches around to grab the ends of the silk belt without a moment’s pause. 

It’s Feilong’s turn to stop the hands this time.

“There’s something you haven’t done all day,” the words lodge somewhere between flirting and accusation, “where’s my happy birthday?”

Yoh takes a long moment before raising his eyes to meet Feilong’s. 

Ah, how for once he’d love to break this man too clear-headed for his own good, thought Feilong. And they both heard the thudding of their hearts, tuned into unison. 

“Permission to say it another way, sir.” Yoh whispered these words, light as feather. 

Roughened hands letting go of the belt. Roughened hands slipping in between silk and skin. Roughened hands anchoring themselves upon lithe opaline waist. 

Heat edging in, halting for one last stop before the precipice. 

Lips descending. Words unspoken. Words heard. 

Tonight at least, they didn’t need to be alone. 

**Author's Note:**

> Just to be clear, I don’t know if Feilong’s father actually adopted him at 30, or if Yanyan actually died at 31, it just sounded right to say so. 
> 
> Poor Yoh, he finally got some.


End file.
